Page 67 of My Big, Fat, Secret Billionaire Baby

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Sabrina

Okay, this is surprising. If not downright weird.

Leo Maxwell, the man whose default setting seems to be ‘brooding billionaire recovering from near-death experience,’ is currently holding my daughter.Ourdaughter.

And he looks… focused. Intent. Happy, even.

His brow is furrowed, yes, but it seems more like concentration than anything else as he follows my gentle instructions on how to properly support Mia’s head. His large hands, the ones I vaguely remember mapping my body with bruising intensity that night in Vegas (nope, file that away, deep deep away), are surprisingly gentle as he cradles her small form against the soft shirt covering his chest.

Mia, for her part, seems utterly unfazed by being held by the human equivalent of a volatile stock option. She’s settled against him, occasionally making soft cooing sounds, her tiny fist still loosely curled around his index finger. Her green eyes blink slowly up at his own. She seems… content. Which is frankly baffling. Usually, strangers get the squinty-eyed suspicion routine.

I’m standing a few feet away, arms crossed, trying to project an aura of casual supervision while my insides twist like a pretzel. My carefully constructed walls, the ones built brick by painful brick after my father skipped town, the ones designed to keep precisely this kind of man at a safe distance… they’re feeling decidedly shaky right now. Seeing him like this, stripped of the power suit and the boardroom bluster, awkwardly navigating the basics of holding an infant… it’s disorienting. He looks almost… human. Vulnerable, even.

Don’t be an idiot, Sabrina.

This is an act. Or maybe just the novelty effect. He’s a billionaire; he’s probably used to acquiring new… assets. Maybe Mia is just the latest, most unexpected addition to his portfolio. A biological one. The vulnerability is probably just lingering weakness from the crash, nothing more.

Still. He’sholdingher. And he hasn’t spontaneously combusted or tried to hand her back like she’s radioactive waste.

Small victories, I guess?

My phone buzzes in my pocket, startling me. I nearly jump out of my skin.

I fumble for it, pulling it out. The caller ID flashes.

Mom.

Oh, holy hell. Not now. Please, not now. My heart sinks. Can I ignore it? Pretend I didn’t feel the vibration?

Nope.

Ignoring my mother, especially when she’s likely calling for her scheduled Mia check-in and willimmediately know something is off if I don’t answer, is not an option.

I shoot Leo an apologetic glance. “Sorry, I should take this. It’s my mother.”

The one who thinks Mia’s father is raising kangaroos Down Under.

This could get awkward fast.

He nods, his attention still mostly focused on the tiny human in his arms. “Go ahead.”

I step away, turning towards the massive windows overlooking Central Park, trying to create a semblance of privacy. As if privacy exists when you’re in a billionaire’s penthouse with his previously unknown daughter cradled in his arms. I could walk into the kitchen or something and shut the door, but not only would that be rude, I kind of feel like... Iwanthim to overhear. Iwantto be truthful about what’s going on in my life.

Enough with the secrets.

I take a deep breath and answer. “Hey, Mom. Perfect timing, Mia just woke up from her nap.”

“Oh, good! How’s my little grand-peanut doing?” Diane’s voice comes through, warm with grandmotherly affection, but I can detect the usual undercurrent of worry she carries about me doing this alone. “And how areyou, honey? You sounded a bit… stressed when we talked earlier this week.”

Stressed? Yeah, finding out your billionaire baby daddy is your new client tends to do that.

“Oh, you know. Just busy, Mom. Juggling work and Mia. The usual.” I try to keep it light.

“Are you at the apartment?” she asks. “You sound… different. Is everything okay?”

Different how? Like I’m standing in a multi-million dollar penthouse belonging to the man whose existence Ilied about?

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